Peleiupu felt his forehead, held his right wrist and took his pulse. One step at a time. Slow down. Pour a glass of water and make him drink the medicine. She undressed him, wiped his body with cold water until he was feeling cool, then she bundled him up in a clean sheet and blanket. He complained he was hot — very hot. ‘We have to reduce your fever,’ she told him.

  Siniva sat down beside her. Iakopo woke and joined them. ‘Shall I tell Tavita?’ he offered.

  ‘No!’ Peleiupu ordered. ‘What are we going to do?’ She asked Siniva, who wound her arm around her shoulders and reminded her that Roni and the Lady Poto were due back soon with new medical supplies and, perhaps, with a skilled government physician who knew how to cure this new papalagi fever. There it was: hope, again. Hope for her son. Siniva also advised that Tavita, at least, should be told about I’amafana.

  Tavita was still asleep on his back, arms outstretched over the pillows. ‘He … he is … he is sick!’ Peleiupu lengthened the sentence as she moved to the bed. ‘He … he is … he is sick!’ Like a chant that, if repeated correctly would effect the healing. Like a prayer that, if intoned correctly, would persuade God to grant her her desperate wish. ‘I’a … I’ama … I’amafana. I’amafana … I’amafana is … I’amafana is sick, Tavita!’ Tavita stirred and turned his head towards her. ‘Tavita, Tavita, our … our son is …’ She was locked in his eyes. He sat up and shook his head. ‘Yes, Tavita, our son is ill!’ He continued shaking his head. Before she could catch him he was escaping from the room and out of reach of her prayer.

  Poto, Vaomatua, Sao and Mautu circled I’amafana’s bed while Lalaga nursed him. Silent, beaten, riven with grief, they were the elders of a community who no longer knew how to save that community. Peleiupu stepped into that equation. No sign of Iakopo, Siniva or Tavita. She rushed to Lalaga, who engulfed her in her arms the way she used to when she was a child searching for comfort and consolation. And for the first time since the epidemic invaded Satoa, Peleiupu released all her fears, pain and anguish. Her high-pitched, breathless screaming settled into an endless cry that circled the room, thrust out over the malae and through the church and clinic and all the fale of Satoa, searching and searching for God’s mercy.

  Poto sent people to look for Tavita. She was told Tavita had taken Iakopo into the bush. ‘I’amafana is sick; why isn’t he here?’ Poto chastised him.

  God was not merciful: I’amafana’s condition worsened. And as Lalaga and Poto fought for his life, Peleiupu withdrew into a fearful silence. Mautu held her and took her to her bedroom, where he fanned her as she lay on the bed, clutching I’amafana’s shirt. ‘Our forgiving Father will save him!’ Mautu told her.

  ‘Don’t, don’t say that to me!’ she attacked. ‘God doesn’t care about us. He is killing even our children!’

  ‘God did not bring this epidemic — the papalagi did. You heard what Tavita said in church.’

  ‘But God is doing nothing to stop it! He is a worthless, cruel God!’ When her father started to counter her, she said, ‘Only real people and real things and our efforts can save us, Papa. Roni and the medicines and doctor I hope he is bringing today.’

  But the Lady Poto did not arrive that day. And Tavita did not come to be with Peleiupu when I’amafana died near midnight.

  Peleiupu sent everyone away. She bathed him, oiled him with coconut oil until the whole room was reflected in his skin, dressed him in his favourite shirt and ie lavalava, selected their finest sleeping mats and siapo from under their bed, wrapped him in those, and tied it with sinnet Sao had plaited.

  She sensed Tavita even before he opened the door and entered. ‘This is your son,’ she said, pointing at the mat-wrapped body on their bed. ‘Pick him up!’ He hesitated. ‘Pick him up!’ He stooped down and, in one sweeping motion, swept up the body.

  Following Tavita and I’amafana, she picked up the two lamps and marched out and up the corridor and through the sitting room where the elders were waiting, and into the night. Lalaga and the others tried to follow. ‘No, no, no!’ she called.

  When they returned at dawn, only Sao dared ask her where his great-grandson was buried. ‘Not even the epidemic will ever know,’ she promised.

  Ninth day. Peleiupu and Tavita sat in their bedroom, gazing out at the bay. Peleiupu said, ‘The epidemic has dealt us the blow we dreaded most. The worst. But we’re still standing. I’m not afraid of it any more.’ The early morning light seemed to be emanating from the heart of the bay, and spreading out across the still water. In the wind was that smell.

  ‘The Lady Poto is coming,’ Tavita said. ‘Look!’ They watched it as it crossed the golden water and docked at the jetty.

  ‘I want Iakopo to be with me wherever I go,’ Peleiupu said.

  They collected their remaining son as they headed for the jetty.

  On the jetty was a small crowd, mainly their relatives. Pa’ugata and her children milled around Roni, who looked more gaunt and drawn. Iakopo ran to his cousins. Behind Roni stood a short, bespectacled man with a large balding head, chunky body and legs, and wearing khaki shorts and a white shirt. He was holding a small suitcase. ‘The authorities wouldn’t release any doctors to us,’ Roni said. ‘This is Malie. He’s been working at the hospital with the German doctors for a long time,’ Roni introduced the stranger. They shook hands. ‘We’ve also brought medical supplies we were able to buy, borrow or steal. Apia is short of them, for reasons I don’t need to tell you.’

  ‘I hope I can help,’ Malie said.

  ‘We also had to pay exorbitant prices for the supplies and the goods,’ Roni added.

  ‘Did you see Naomi?’ Peleiupu remebered.

  ‘Yes, we called into Manono, but she refused to come with us: they have to stay and help their people,’ Roni replied.

  ‘You tell Lalaga that,’ Peleiupu instructed him. ‘Did you see Ruta?’

  ‘We didn’t have time to go to Fagaloto,’ Roni replied.

  ‘You tell Lalaga that too.’

  Peleiupu led Malie to the clinic, explaining to him what they’d been doing.

  ‘I’ve never seen any epidemic like this before,’ Malie said. ‘No one, not even the scientists in Europe, know what is causing it.’

  ‘Are you saying there is no cure?’ Peleiupu asked, reluctantly.

  He shook his head, saying, ‘But we shouldn’t let the others know, should we? To have hope is a cure, isn’t it?’ He paused. ‘Many also develop pneumonia — that causes their skin to go dark blueish — it’s not the Black Plague.’

  While they unloaded the boat Roni said that he and his crew had been forced to break into some stores and the hospital pharmacy at night, to get the supplies they needed. Because many of the police and store owners were dead or sick, security in Apia was lax.

  Tavita and Mikaele arranged quickly for the boat’s cargo to be shared, daily, among all the families. ‘For free?’ Semisi asked.

  ‘What the hell do you think?’ snapped Mikaele. ‘Do you want us to profit from others’ misery?’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Tavita intervened.

  They then arranged for the well members of the aumaga to take care of all the plantations and distribute the produce to those who needed it. Others were to go fishing daily.

  That morning’s inspection produced ten sick, three dead; they buried nine that day, including one of Roni’s crew.

  Mautu and Sao decided to shorten the service and hold it by the grave. Iakopo and other boys had to help Mikaele and his diminishing group of men carry the bodies to the grave and bury them. Many relatives were too sick to attend the funeral for their dead.

  At the clinic they were impressed with Malie’s manner and skills. While he worked he also trained Fa’amapu, Peleiupu and his other helpers. Even Peleiupu was inspired, though she knew there was no cure.

  That evening Peleiupu, Lalaga and Poto stayed on at the clinic. They ate with the patients and their relatives, and then continued helping Malie, in shifts, through the night.

  Four died — no loud weeping, just a silent resignation and farewell prayers. After the four bodies were prepared for burial their relatives left quietly for home. Peleiupu told Malie that the four victims had survived longer than previous ones. That was a good sign, he said. They were entering the second phase of the epidemic. In Apia, where the epidemic had struck first, more and more people were surviving longer. He didn’t know why.

  At dawn a baby girl died in Malie’s arms. He handed her to her grief-stricken mother and rushed out of the clinic. They heard his sobbing above the roaring of the surf on the reef. They were to learn later that Malie had lost his wife and four children to the epidemic.

  The stench of death, as it worsened, seemed to produce with it larger and larger swarms of flies.

  Fourteenth day. It seemed as if she’d been asleep for only a few minutes when Iakopo woke her and, handing her the clothes she’d asked him to bring, said he had to rush back home and help Tavita and Uncle Mikaele and his cousins make the largest umu ever made in Satoa because they had to cook enough food for everyone. Couldn’t he talk to her for a while? He shook his head and said that after making the umu, Mama Poto wanted him and his cousins to sweep out the church, and after that Papa Mautu wanted him to beat the lali for church, and after that, while the morning service was on, Uncle Mikaele wanted him and his cousins to help collect the sick and the dead. Wasn’t he afraid of being infected? she asked. ‘If I get it, I get it,’ he said. What about the dead? she pursued him. ‘What about them?’ he replied. Wasn’t he afraid of them? Shaking his head curtly, he said, ‘I know all of them well and they know me well, so they won’t harm me. We’re all aiga, remember?’

  Yes, the wisdom of the innocent was amazing, she thought as he watched him running across the malae. The living, the sick, the dead, the future were indeed all aiga — family — sharing everything.

  There was an acrid smell of fire and ash. Only a few columns of smoke rose from the kitchen fale; most people were too sick to cook their usual Sunday umu. The grieving for I’amafana began to swamp her again; she got up and continued working with the patients.

  Even before the lali sounded for the morning service, eight more patients and two dead were brought to the clinic. The few who struggled to carry them were exhausted and sick, and most of them returned home immediately after. The ward and verandas of the clinic were now crowded with the sick and dying. Though they were meticulous in cleaning and disinfecting everything, the smell of vomit, blood, urine and excrement lingered. Through that, the unidentifiable smell kept taunting Peleiupu.

  When she saw Mautu and Sao leading the small congregation and realised they were shifting the morning service to the clinic, she slipped out the back way, jumped down onto the beach and headed for the jetty. She had to shield her eyes from the painful glare of the sun on the white sand and the water.

  The jetty and Lady Poto were deserted. Needing shade, she boarded the boat and, sitting down on the deck area, gazed out to sea. The boat rocked gently under her, and, as she melted into that rhythm, and the detailed memories of her son filled the blank whiteness of the horizon, she lay back and wept …

  She awoke to the rich odour of octopus cooked in coconut cream, and hot palusami and taro, and sat up. ‘Our food is ready,’ Iakopo said. Tavita was standing beside him. The food was on two foodmats beside her.

  ‘It didn’t take us long to find you, Pele,’ Tavita said. ‘Did you have a good sleep?’

  ‘Yes, free of the epidemic for a while.’

  ‘Iakopo, you say our grace,’ he told their son, who closed his eyes and raced through the memorised family grace, and then shifted over to share his mother’s foodmat.

  She looked at their food. Iakopo waited for her and then said, to encourage her, ‘I helped Sao make the palusami.’

  At once she broke off a piece of taro and dug it into a palusami. As she chewed, Iakopo watched her. ‘Tastes very good,’ she congratulated him. ‘You’re a great palusami maker!’

  ‘He helped me make the octopus dish too,’ Tavita said.

  As she watched her son digging hungrily into the food, her appetite returned and she joined him. When she looked over, Tavita was also eating.

  ‘What’s the matter, Pele?’ Iakopo interrupted her, a while later.

  ‘Your brother should be here, eating with us,’ Tavita saved her. ‘He’s not here — but he is here, and will always be with us.’

  Every Sunday after to’ona’i everyone slept, or tried to sleep. So apart from the coughing, the crowded clinic was quiet as they passed it. However, when they reached the edge of the malae it hit them. Everything in Satoa had a story, a memory, of their dead son. So their walk through the village in the heat was one of navigating that pain, which intensified with every memory. There, by the pandanus, I’amafana had fallen and grazed his right knee; there on the malae he’d played his first game of kilikiti — a duck; there in front of their faletele he’d been told off by Sao for pissing; there and there and there; that smell, that sound, that … In his death, he’d become the whole world of Satoa. Iakopo sensed his parents’ pain, so he reached out and held their hands.

  Alone in their bedroom, Peleiupu and Tavita held on to each other and the enormous absence of their son, which they knew they had to live with for the rest of their lives.

  ‘I want to die, I want to die!’ Tavita whispered.

  Fifteenth day. They were surprised when Semisi and Feleti brought them their morning meal. On two large trays covered with embroidered hand towels were papaya, mango, fresh bread and jam, and koko. In the middle of each tray, in small vases, were small branches of gardenia blossom. ‘A real palagi breakfast for real Samoans!’ Semisi declared, placing a tray on Peleiupu’s belly. ‘Don’t get out of bed.’ He sat down by Peleiupu’s legs while Feleti, a large figure with rolls of fat, sat down beside Tavita’s. ‘You need cheering up — this bloody Fa’ama’i is a hungry bitch!’ And before they knew it, Semisi started bawling into his hands. ‘It’s not fair; God’s not fair!’ he cried. Feleti started crying too. Tavita put his arms around both of them and drew them in to his sides.

  ‘It’s not bloody fair — Roni and Taimane and Ma’a are sick now!’ Semisi said.

  Peleiupu got out of bed carefully so as not to upset the trays and, standing by the bed, hugged Semisi’s head to her belly. ‘The bitch won’t get all of us. It won’t,’ she crooned.

  Semisi told them Poto wanted them to visit Roni and his sick daughters. Roni, Pa’ugata and their children lived with Mikaele and other relatives in the afolau behind Sao’s.

  The sky was overcast. Semisi hoped it would rain. Peleiupu stopped in front of the bakery and looked down at the malae. Everything was overgrown — the grass, the patches of taro and ta’amu, the stands of bananas and sugar cane. Rubbish, fallen leaves, branches and coconuts were left lying about. Because they weren’t being fed regularly, the pigs had broken over the rock fences and were foraging through the village, digging up the malae and gardens. The chickens were doing the same. More emaciated and hungrier, the dogs roamed the night, fighting over the little food they could find. She refused to believe the rumour that the dogs were also devouring untended bodies. The white horse that belonged to a neighbour who’d died three days before was still tied to the palm tree behind the church; it had eaten all the grass within the length of its rope, down to the bare ground, and was now standing utterly still on three legs, its ribs and backbone almost protruding through its hide. Peleiupu sent Iakopo to untie it.

  Even from that distance she could hear Roni wheezing and sucking back the mucus and phlegm, then spitting it out in explosive squawks.

  Roni lay in the only bed in the fale. His sick daughters, Taimane and Ma’a, were curled up in their sleeping sheets on the floor, with Pa’ugata and Poto sitting with them. Semisi sat down in the chair beside the bed. Tavita and Mikaele lay near Poto, who, when everyone was seated, prayed to God to protect all their people, especially their children, Elisapeta and Ana and their families, who were living elsewhere.

  ‘Have a whisky, Pele,’ Roni greeted Peleiupu. ‘It’ll cure your grief!’ He laughed and drained his glass. Pa’ugata took the bottle away. ‘Compared to this bloody disease what harm can that whisky do?’ he complained.

  ‘Don’t be silly, ese lou fia tough!’ Semisi admonished him, tapping his head. Throughout their lives, Roni had always been Semisi’s ‘special young brother’, the one he indulged, giving him everything he wanted; the one he protected fiercely even against Poto; ‘the best guitarist on the planet I love singing duets with’; and the one who reciprocated Semisi’s love and devotion ‘one hundred and ten per cent.’

  ‘So because you think I’m dying, you’ve come to visit me, eh? All the Albinowhite children of the drunken palagi trader, Lord Almighty Barker!’

  ‘Ronald, now you are being stupid!’ Semisi retorted in English. ‘Our father was a brave and magnificent lord.’

  ‘See, Mama? My handsome brother can speak beautiful English, my father’s guttural language. No thanks to our neglectful father. It was Pele and Lalaga who taught Semisi. It was our precious father who taught Mautu and Pele. Why didn’t he teach us, Mama?’ Roni waited but Poto refused to reply. Smiling impishly, Roni said, ‘Being an afakasi I should be able to speak half-English and half-Samoan, but I can’t. I speak all-Samoan, so I’m Samoan. I eat Samoan. I shit Samoan. I sleep Samoan, and I …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Don’t say it!’ Pa’ugata stopped him.

  ‘I sing Samoan, I pray Samoan and I’ll die Samoan!’ Then, looking at Poto, he asked, ‘Mama, why do I have this palagi appearance and body when I am Samoan, eh? Every time we go to Apia or those arrogant Albinos visit us, they treat us as afakasi, illegitimate dregs of their civilisation, lost, unwanted, definitely inferior to them. Well, they’re all arseholes: lily-white albino arseholes!’

  ‘That’s enough, Ronald!’ Semisi demanded.

  ‘This is the Lord’s day, even if you don’t go to church any more,’ Poto attacked him. ‘And don’t swear like that in front of the children.’